


City of Crimson

by TheSweetestThing



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-11
Updated: 2015-07-11
Packaged: 2018-04-08 13:34:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4307037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSweetestThing/pseuds/TheSweetestThing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nobody expected an attack in daylight.</p><p>It didn't make sense, when the population of Kings Landing was bustling with smallfolk, gold cloaks and kingsguards patrolling every gate. Perhaps that was why they decided to strike then, when the sun beat down with overwhelming heat. People already half-stressed and lethargic, tongues furred for water and sweat staining silks that clung to clammy skin.</p><p>The capital is easily swarmed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	City of Crimson

**Author's Note:**

> Just pure wish fulfillment :)

Nobody expected an attack in _daylight_.

It didn't make sense, when the population of Kings Landing was bustling with smallfolk, gold cloaks and kingsguards patrolling every gate. Perhaps that was why they decided to strike then, when the sun beat down with overwhelming heat. People already half-stressed and lethargic, tongues furred for water and sweat staining silks that clung to clammy skin.

The capital is easily swarmed.

No ravens flew from the place Lord Tywin’s army had last been, the celebrations lasting long into the night as the Northerners burnt lions to the ground, and a dragon shrieked in glee.

* * *

The Dragon Queen stares at the destruction before her with regret in her violet eyes.

“I didn’t want to kill so many.” She sighs delicately, fingers trailing a path down the spine of her largest dragon. The one with onyx black scales and red eyes, Hell’s eyes, a harbinger of death.

“It was the only way.” Her companion tells her. Broad, with a bronze crown atop his auburn curls and ice in his blue eyes. Robb Stark was the King who Married, who sent a letter to a Northern man in exile in service to a Queen who sought the same revenge.

They stand before their fallen city, watching the smoke unfurl into the morning air, and watch the citizens lucky to be alive stumble out coughing, clutching fabric to mouths still heaving beneath to cough up the fumes. They had not left their people to die. Swift and steathy men had scaled Kings Landing's walls on the cusp of daybreak to cut down goldcloaks from the northern Dragon Gate and north-western Old Gate and open the portcullis, allowing citizens to stream out whilst soldiers stormed in. People unlucky enough to be in the middle of the city did well to reach Rhaenys hill and take in the battle before them. Not truly a battle, for the Lannister soldiers defending the King quickly died or changed sides when faced with dragons and wolves, battle hardy Northern men covered in blood and furs, screaming Dothraki with their silver bells ringing death, death, death. The dragonfire had bathed the buildings and licked the streets only when Daenerys gave word, only when their soldiers had herded all the smallfolk that listened away, only when the enemy soldiers poured out into the alleys around the Red Keep. Her platinum locks flowing behind her as she circled the clouds above and gave directions only a wolf could hear with his ears pricked up, and Robb shouted along the message to their foot soldiers with a thirst for blood thick on his teeth. You had to be cruel to be kind, and innocents caught in the crossfire would be memoralised in a statue later, Daenerys resolved. In the years of my rule, how many lifes will I save and improve? More then the ones taken today. Their death would bring good health to many more, they would understand.   

Daenerys Targaryen was a Mother, a Mother of Dragons, of Dothraki, of all who were in need of a leader to treat them fair, and she walked forward to help the citizens staggering ever closer. Her tiny hands directed them to her army, where women and Maesters they’d picked up on their march stood prepared to save lives. Robb and Daenerys had warned them of such, had they not? They more than most knew the havoc and destruction war could wreck for peasants and highborn alike, and did not want to go down in history for having massacred every innocent soul in their city before they even sat on the Iron throne.

They had done all they could.

The summer grass brushes Robb’s legs in the breeze, tickling his knees and he looks down to his left and pets his direwolf, scratching behind his ears. Grey Wind peels back the skin over his teeth and growls, a feral growl, a growl from a wolf who has grown accustomed to battle.

“Soon.” Robb promises.

* * *

Crimson blood drips through the cracks of burnt bricks, the scorched ground leaving wisps of smoke unfurling into the air. The once bone white cobbles are desecrated with the guts of the dead, skinny rats already starting to creep amongst the corpses to nibble at their entrails. Moans float in the wind, the ghosts of hundreds of people creeping alongside the skin of the living, and Robb shivers as he walks the streets. The initial wave of fighting was over, and by all accounts the city had well and truly been taken. No signs of resistance were noticeable in the deserted streets, only the dead and dying.

A few soldiers he meets on his way to the Red Keep join his troops, and Jorah Mormont drops the spear he held so tight his knuckles were white when they come across him. Blood coats his temple, his breath quick and skin slick with sweat. Jorah Mormont, so devoted to his Khaleesi, so wary of the son of the Lord who sent him away. Perhaps grateful in a strange way, for without him he would never have met Daenerys. Without him, Daenerys would not be here. Without him, Daenerys might have been his. 

“Daenerys?” He says hoarsely. He was the very first to volunteer, scaling the Dragon Gate himself to duel the guards that defended it in the hour of the wolf.

“She is attending the wounded.” Robb replies. “She thought I should have the honour of breaking the Keep. They have holed up all their remaining warriors there. A last stand.”

“They must know it’s futile.”

“The Lannisters have always been too proud.”

The GreatJon begins to hum the Rains of Castamere, breaking off to kick the head of a Lannister soldier they pass. “I propose a new song. The Ruins of Lannisters.”

“This battle is not over yet.” Robb cautions. "There will be many more deaths." 

The smallfolk that were too scared to run, or too old or too feeble, stare with hollow eyes from the shadows as they pass, but Robb cannot think of them now. Let his wife be the Mother of all, for Robb Stark was the Young Wolf, and Winter was coming with a vengenance for the Lannister's.

"They'll have archers on the walls of the Keep Your Grace." Ser Barristan tells him. Barristan the Bold, who had crossed a continent and returned to fufil his eternal oaths to faithfully defend a King - or Queen.

"My Queen is taking care of that." Robb smiles. "We need to concern ourselves with the inside of the Keep. The whole court will be inside. Do you know where they retire to when under seige?"

"The Sept, I should think, to pray for their survival. Or perhaps the throne room, to prove their royalty."

"And my sister?" Robb frowns, scratching his auburn beard and staring up at the castle beyond them. No sign of life flickered from the closed tight windows, the doors locked and barred, but he was no fool to not think a last line of defence were scattered amongst the outwall. "Will Sansa be there too?"

"Hard to say my Lord." He hesistates. "When Lord Tywin brought his army into the city under the pretense of support, he slaughtered Princess Elia and her children for they were too big a threat."

Robb worries at his bottom lip for a moment, tasting the blood thick on his tongue.

"We shall find King Joffrey first. Find him and kill him and the rest will soon fall. I shall lead the assualt when Daenerys gives the signal."

"And what is the signal, Your Grace?"

"You shall know Ser Barristan." Robb promises. "Everyone shall know."

* * *

Fear tugs at her heartstrings, her pulse stuttering in her throat as her fingers tangle and entwine with nerves. Nobody tells her anything, knights rushing past with cloaks billowing around their legs, servants scurrying past tripping over each other in their haste to hide, but Sansa hears whispers of dragons and direwolves, fire and fury. 

Her heart flounders at the stories of dragons but leaps at the mention of wolves. Robb was here, Robb was coming for her, and she presses her hands against her lips to hide a smile. She ignores the tales of dragons, for Robb would not let her come to harm, and he was coming for her truly. She is dizzy with anticipation, slippers hurrying to the nearest window to look out amongst the smoking city below, and she can see the banners rippling in the wind beyond the city walls, grey and black and red dots, and she could sing with delight and relief. She sits in her locked and barred chambers, alone and smoothing her skirts to sooth her panic. Like the day Father died, is all she can think, but this time it is help coming. 

 _Robb come quick_ , she prays, _I am here, I am here. I am here._

* * *

"They are marching to the castle Your Grace." Maester Pycelle looks at her with wide eyes, adams apple bobbing as his throat constricts. Fingering his chains with hands that tremble, and he cannot resist flicking his gaze to the window nearby to look out over the ruins of the city Cersei had made hers.

How could her world change so drastically in a morning? She had been rudely awoken to servants stealing ornate candlesticks and jewels before they attempted to flee from a threat she had not even know of. They had been focused for so long on Lord Stannis and Renly nobody had paid attention to the Northern boy who had paused at Riverrun for so long. They should have known he was planning something, Northerners were not to be trusted. Orange gold flames had flickered outside her window and she had dressed herself as soon as possible, barking out instructions she can no longer remember in her panicked haste. When the fire and screams had died she had looked around the Great Hall at the Lords and Ladies gossiping or in hysterics, and retreated to her chambers to think of a way to get out of this mess. Cersei was no fool, the North and East of the city were smouldering ruins and the rest was near to empty, folk not caught in the flames creeping up to Rhaenys hill or out of gates now left unmanned and free to use, or running down to the docks and absconding with whatever valuables filched from homes. 

"The city watch's East barracks have been burnt to the ground, and the gold cloaks themselves are dead or remain missing."

"Changed sides more like." Cersei snorts, taking a sip of wine. It burns down her throat to the pit of her stomach like wildfire. Of course loyalty disappeared when faced with death, and the craven men ripped off their cloaks and swore to fight for the invaders side, the winning side in a bid to keep their head. The Keep had gone into lockdown as soon as the dragon fire had bloomed in the distance, the echoes of death cries making their way to the castle. What more could they do? Sending scores of men to useless deaths served no purpose. Better to defend what they still had left to the best of their ability. 

"There is no official word on the number of lives lost yet. Only a scarse amount of smallfolk have turned to the Red Keep for help." He coughs. "Which you requested we turn away... It appears the invaders are offering aid for the wounded, maesters and healers are camped outside the city walls where all who could fled." Of course saving innocent lives and abating to the fear they themselves struck into the hearts of every piss poor peasant that was still alive would make the self-proclaimed King of the North and his battle companion loved. Disgust crawls thick in Cersei's veins, and mayhaps a dash of envy too, for it could have been her flying a dragon. A golden dragon as gold as her hair in the noon sun, but instead she is here glittering dully in her too-quiet chambers after a marriage to a man she never wanted. Her lip curdles in distaste and she takes another gulp of sour wine. 

"There are reports of Northern men and _Dothraki_ roaming the streets killing all who try to reach us and send words detailing their deeds."

"So the Targaryen whelp and Stark boy are trying to take my throne. My son's throne." Cersei muses, swilling wine around her goblet. _They thought themselves so clever, to begin their assualt in the mist of daybreak by taking out the cities most ardent defenders, and carry on in broad daylight like fools for everyone to witness their actions._ They thought themselves living legends, to be sure. "I must admit I'm surprised the Dothraki crossed the sea." 

"We should surrender." 

Cersei glares at him sharply. "You would surrender the city to an upstart Northern boy and a girl nobody knows? We wil defend the rightful King to our last man if needs be." She snaps. 

"Your Grace-"

"The King?" She asks. "Where is my son?"

"He is still locked and guarded in his chamber Your Grace, where you bade him to go when you awoke. He is quite angry, wanting to go out of the Keep himself and defend his city. The Lord Tyrion says the boy-"

"Find my brother and get him to ride out under a white banner in peace." A pretense, while the castle built their defences and utilize every tactic possible to injure the attacking party. "Tell the Targaryen girl the King will marry her if its a crown she wants."

"He is betrothed to the Lady Sansa, her ally's sister." 

 Cersei shrugs. "Perhaps the little bird shall be of no state to marry anyone after today." She runs a hand through her hair. "Anything can happen in times of war Maester." She stands up, pushing her chair back. "And I think her brother shall soon join her Father if he does not bend the knee."

* * *

Catelyn did not trust her good-daughter.

The Targaryen girl had ambitious plans, plans she had dragged her son into when Robb had no intention of doing the same. He wanted to save his sister Sansa true, but there were better ways then sacking a city. Had they learnt nothing from the war fifteen years before, that had cost the lives of Robb's own grandfather and Uncle, of Daenery's entire family? A history they both connected with, Catelyn realises. It had been she who had pushed for a good match for a King, but not an exiled Princess who wanted to retake her throne. Robb had gone behind her back to send a letter to the girl when he had heard from Lady Mormont of the girl her brother protected, sending Catelyn off in misdirections to treat with Lord Renly and Stannis and Frey. Robb had no desire to be King of the other six realms, he struggled with the weight of his crown from just one kingdom, but would he listen to his Mother when the lust of his new bride ruled his brain? Of course not. 

Catelyn surveys the result of desire and vengenance around her, the feeble and frail bodies laid on the ground sucking water from solemn Septa's spoons, Maesters tugging bandages around burns oozing pus. The scent of horses were thick in the air, Dothraki warriors bells ringing as they roared in pride for their  _Khaleesi._

Daenerys had enchanted her son with visions of grandeur, how they would take the city and take back what was hers by right, how they would rescue Sansa and take revenge on his Father both. How could Catelyn deny him of that? A chance to rescue his sister and have her back in her arms by the end of the day. But revenge wreaked only more revenge, an endless cycle for the people caught in the crossfire of crowns and Catelyn sighs softly, working her way through her daughters hair.

Arya squirms, and Catelyn presses a kiss onto her cheek. Arya, with her short hair caked with mud and grime, her face bruised and skinnier then ever, clothed in rags and barefoot, and she had never loved her daughter more when Yoren's party had met Robb's on their way down to the Capital. She had never told her daughter how much she loved her fierceness before, but she tells her now, whispers it lovingly into her ear as she smooths her hair back down. 

"Robb's fierce too." Arya tells her before she takes off, running across to help Dany feed the sick and hungry. "He'll get Sansa back and kill Joffrey you'll see."

That was the problem. Robb was fierce, Stark-fierce, and Daenerys was a Targaryen with what could be madness running through her veins, and a cruel boy born of incest who beheaded those who dared to defy him called himself King, and three people could not sit the Iron throne and rule. 

* * *

"Imp."

Tyrion could scarce believe the man before him was the same boy-child he had met an age ago in Winterfell, who had been so unsure and unseemly in his actions as Lord. A King now, with a King's weariness and wariness upon his shoulders, experience in his cool blue eyes, and his hand does not fall from the hilt of his sword attached to his hip, his wolf stuck to his side as if by magical means.

"Lord Stark."

"King." GreatJon Umber buts in. "King of the North, and soon the Seven Kingdoms."

Tyrion's lip twists. "King Robb as you witness with my white banner I come with peace terms."

"You think we want peace, now?" Robb says coolly. "We would go this far, have innocent people killed for us to just turn back?" He draws himself up taller, jaw turned up proudly. "We are not like you Southerners, we take no pleasure in the killing of innocents but we do what we must for the good of the realm. That bastard on the Iron Throne is no King of mine, and I will repay him for the slight against my family and my Father." He pauses. "My wife's too." 

Tyrion did not know who Robb had married, he had last heard the prickly Lord Walder hoped to secure one of his girls as a bride.

"Speaking of marriages." Tyrion clears his throat, attempts to make himself taller among the sea of Northerners before him. Even as he watches, a Dothraki creeps out of the shadows with a savage hiss, the bells on his hair ringing, ringing, ringing, his hand clenched tight around a huge curved knife, glinting silver and scarlet in the sun. 

"My sister, the Queen regnant has a proposal for your ally Daenerys. She may be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms with Joffrey by her side-"

Laughter falls down on Tyrion, making him feel half his size and he swallows thickly. 

"Might I know the joke?" He asks.

"The Queen has her King, just as the North have a Queen." Jorah Mormont says, eyes tightening. "She married Robb Stark two days after she arrived in Westeros."

"Under the heart tree in Riverrun aye," GreatJon says. "And a bedding the whole keep heard." 

_This complicates things._

"You may go back to your sister." Robb tells him. "And tell her we will not be persuaded for peace. You must atone for the sins against mine and my wife's family. Fire and Blood is Coming for your House and all who defy us." 

* * *

She was going to die in this room without ever seeing her brother again, and Sansa whimpers as she quivers in the corner of her bedchamber as the Kingsguard works at her door. As Robb marched on the castle Sansa had dared to defy Joffrey in actions as well as thought, and refused to go when Ser Meryn knocked on the door and demanded it. She had told him she would not go, she would  _not_  for she was scared (she would not for Robb would prevail and then they would all be punished) and Ser Meryn had stomped away and return a while ago to start hacking down her door. She has shoved her dresser in front of it as a last line of defence, and as it trembles and knocks she remembers poor Elia Martell and the fate of her children and only hopes that her killer does not rape her before she dies. 

"Trant!" A voice in the corridor, and the sound of axe scraping on wood disappears to be replaced by another voice.

"Sansa." 

Sansa closes her eyes against the Queen's soft words. Nothing about that golden Queen was soft and sweet and warm, she was glittering cold and cruelty, and she will not be persuaded to open the door. Not when Robb is coming. And if Robb fails, Sansa will face her due punishment repentant but unashamed of having faith in her older brother.

"Little dove there is no need to be scared. Unlock your door. It is your brother come to the Capital, and you shan't be harmed."

Sansa lets out a hysterical giggle, for her brother coming to the Capital meant she was for sure to be harmed, and brutally. She slaps her hands over her mouth to stop her lips from betraying her once more, and the Queen regnant sighs so loud Sansa can hear from across her bedchamber. 

"Your Father ordered the deaths of the Lady Elia Martell and her children Rhaenys and Aegon when he stormed the castle, Lady Cersei." Sansa cannot believe the reckless words that fall from her lips as her fingers fall away, the knowledge that her brother was on his way to her making her giddy. "And you are his daughter." 

Utter silence from outside her door and Sansa hopes against hope she had not been foolish before time.

* * *

He did not truly trust those Dothraki, as they were his wife's army not his own, with customs and history he knew naught of despite Dany's whisperings at night in the Dothraki tongue.

She had tried to put bells in his hair, plaiting them into his red locks when they won every battle. After they were sated from love-making, his seed sticky on her thighs, the supple flesh of her thin neck marred pink with rough kisses and bites, she would twine her tiny hands into his hair and tug and pull, sifting them into scruffy plaits as he yawned. "I am not Dothraki," He told her. "I am Northern, and we do not wear bells into battle." How she had frowned then, regret in her eyes black in the dark. "I forget myself." Robb knows of her first husband, and the child she had lost in that red wasteland, and he lets her handle her grief however she desires, but he will not be made into someone he is not. 

He is a wolf, and he stalks around the streets of Kings Landing with a hot tongue lolling from his mouth, paws trotting lightly in pools of sticky blood, pausing to sniff at the air, whiskers atremble. He can smell the scent of hundreds of men on the keep's outer walls, the horses that shift from foot to foot uneasily not knowing what they feared. He can smell old stone that came to life, death cloying his nostrils, fire made flesh. 

Robb looks up and smiles.

Grins like a child, for there she is above him like a girl from a legend. Drogon’s leathery wings beat the air, and his screech sends fire streaming so close Robb can feel the heat on his cheeks. Had she ever failed him? No, not even when she bled out their child on the way down to this battlefield. She had remained strong and unbreaking even then, her face stoic when he assured her there would be heirs one day. “I am the Mother of Dragons.” She had told him, and now here she was atop one of her sons.

* * *

Tyrion waddles back and forth in the Great Hall where the court resides, the men bellowing to be allowed to fight whilst women shriek and swoon in hysteria, and Tyrion pushes his way through the crowd who could easily trample him if sufficiently moved to enough terror. 

"If we surrender now we may keep our heads." Tyrion pushes his hair back in frustration. 

"No." Cersei says immediately, shaking her golden mane of hair. "There must be another way." 

"We have exhausted every option, there is nothing else we can do. As I told you Stark and the Targaryen girl are married with likely an heir in her belly right now, and their forces are simply too overpowering. They're storming the front of the castle as we speak. They have  _dragons,_ sweet sister.  _Dragons. A_ nd direwolves and soldiers beside." 

"We shall have to wait and see what happens. Anyone can be killed." Cersei says, and a shiver runs down Tyrion's back at the thought of Robb's last words of warning.

Yes, anyone can be killed.

* * *

 She will take no concessions or liberties, will not hold back from destroying all the Lannister's hold dear.

For herself and her husband both, for all the men and women and children that had died in a war that ended up with a Usurper King, and now a bastard born of incest who has stolen her birthright. Daenerys squeezes Drogon's sides, thighs clenching and stars exploding behind her eyes in pleasure as Drogon roars, his flames caressing the soldiers below that dared to try and bring them down. Rhaegal and Viserion screech beside her, and she leans to one side to make Drogon switch course and shouts  _Dracerys,_ her words drowned out from the screams as the people in the courtyard below flee and take cover, and the stables are soon alight, horses dancing and twisting in the act of dying, braying and kicking at burning wood to be freed. 

The wind whips through her silver locks, and she has never felt more _alive,_ and heat pools deep within her as her legs tighten around her child. He rears up when the arrows hit his flank and Daenerys slips down his back, fingers scrabbling at his scales.  

"Drogon." She shouts, lifting her leg higher up. He swoops down low, smoke wafting from his nostrils as a low grumble works from his throat, his belly vibrating beneath her and she finds her holding once more and shuffles back up to twine her heels back beneath Drogon's wings.  The arrows are still being loosed though, even as Rhaegal blasts the shield protected warriors hidden by thick walls. They were adapting to the situation and Daenerys snarls under her breath in annoyance, circling the huge castle. Almost lazy, the way Drogon flies around and around. 

"Down Drogon." Daenerys commands, and Rhaegal is suddenly a blur of green and bronze as his claws reach out to scrabble against the walls of the Keep, wings buffeting wildly. His snout noses into the nest of archers, fire roasting the cluster of soldiers and he snaps at the nearest, tearing at their chest as they scream. 

Viserion is joining his brother, and Drogon is wont to do the same before Daenerys urges him away. She can see her husbands troops running, her Dothraki warriors trotting up on their mounts to storm the castle's main gate but she needs to open the portcullis herself- 

"Down." Daenerys repeats, slapping her hand against his neck and when Drogon flies to make a meal of one of the Lannister soldiers so low his belly is almost scraping the castle bricks she takes her chance. His claws scrabble for purchase on the narrow castle walls, and he breathes flame in fury, and Daenerys rolls off his back when he finally positions himself somewhat steadily and bends to his food. 

She slides off his back and staggers on the bricks disorientedly before she realises that the wall itself is trembling finely, the bricks loosed beneath her and she hurries along as fast as her legs can carry her. She finds the chains for the portcullis and pulls with all her strength, the chains running through her fingers as her arms ache. She can hear the groaning of the wood lifting below, and the welcoming roar from her army as they look up and cheer, swords and arakhs raised to the air in triumph. She takes a moment to breathe, swallowing thickly and leaning her head against the cool brick wall before looking at the destruction around her. 

Soldiers battle below her, her dragons still feasting on the dead soldiers around her, and she makes her way across a nearby bridge she presumes leads to the Great Hall strangely vulnerable, for no companion stood at her shoulder, no dragon to defend her. She swipes away a silver curl from her face and calls for her children. For one at least, but none return and she clenches her jaw. She would do this alone then.

She holds her head high as she makes her way across the bridge and into the castle, and if she is killed now, then she knows her husband will reign with her tale wrote in history books for dozens to read.  

The first soldier she sees falls to his knees and begs for mercy, the skin on one side of his face drooping and weeping blood, the burnt flesh blistered and glistening with pus. She takes the sword he offers her and leaves him to die. She will spare no kindness for Lannister men, even if they want to turn their cloak. They should have supported her from the start; they should have known better.

Eerie, how after the guard she had left to die she encounters nobody. All the fighting is below in the courtyard, and she is quite alone to roam the castle that is now hers, nearly, finally. 

A smile pulls at her lips before she realises what has to be done, and she quickens her pace in haste for it all to be over, for sweet revenge to be hers at last.

* * *

Robb plants his foot on the chest of a Lannister soldier clothed in crimson and  _pushes._ He reels backward, and Robb's sword falls out from him as he sprawls dead on the floor. He pants, wiping the curls out of his eyes and turning around as the next rushes at him. His forces are spilling out from the courtyard into the Keep itself, the Dothraki wailing for their  _Khaleesi_ as they cut down scores of men, and men older then Robb grovel at his knees and weep before Grey Wind rips out their throat.

 _For Winterfell!_ Echoes around him.  _For Ned!_ For all the people who could not be with them to take justice into their own hands. Robb scrambles over the dead, horses and soldiers alike, sweating through his armour. He cuts down a man who blubbers  _he's changed sides,_ he slashes and stabs and doesn't stop. His red curls flying into his face dirty with dust and blood, and he can barely breathe, tears stinging his eyes. A Dothraki roars in fury when his arm is separated from his body by a goldcloak, his horse wheeling around in circles trampling crawling men to death, skulls shattered from bloodied hooves, and the goldcloak barely has time to appreciate his kill before Dacey Mormont's sword passes through his stomach. Blood bubbles on his lips, and Dacey smiles beautifully, and Robb looses her when a swarm of knights ambush him and he's suddenly fighting two at once, three at another turn, and Grey Wind leaps up and rips the throat of one, knocking the other off his feet while Robb and Robin Flint kill the third together. Robb wheels away staggering, exhaustion seeping into his bones as sweat runs rivets down his face.

War is bloody, war is bad, war is death, and Robb finds evidence of that all around him, the smoke from the still burning stables suffocatingly thick and rendering human eyes weak. Wolf eyes can sniff out every liar that promises to repent and kill them, can traverse around all the dead bodies without tripping, can see an arrow pierce a dragon straight in the eye- 

"Move!" Robb screams, voice hoarse as he tugs his nearest soldier back. 

They run, leaping over piles of the dead as the dragon cries out, thrashing, and Robb can hear the high painful shrieks of his wife echo around him in unison with the dragons as it falls

down,

down,

down.

* * *

Catelyn stares at the cloud of dust in the distance with forboding thick in her veins, a sour taste in her mouth. You could hear the dragons calls from there, even with all the noise from the injured and left behind.

"Robb will be fine Mother." Arya worries at her bottom lip. "I wish I was there fighting."

Longing clear in her voice, and Catelyn eyes her child speculatively. She had never dropped the skinny sword she held now since she arrived in camp, it was forever in her hand or looped through a hole in the belt at her hip. Catelyn was no fool, she saw Mikken's mark that showed the sword was Winterfell made, and she strongly suspected that Jon Snow had everything to do with why her daughter carried a sword. But Brienne was her sworn shield now, and after hearing the news of Sansa being struck in Kings Landing for every battle Robb won, mayhaps Arya was right, sensible even to want to fight. 

"If you wish to take your learning seriously," Catelyn says. "I am certain Brienne will teach you how to use a proper sword. How to  _defend_ yourself."

The smile Arya gives her then will break a millions mens hearts when she is older, Catelyn judges.

"Truly Mother?" 

Catelyn nods. "Although do not think this removes you from your royal duty. You are a Princess now and must conduct yourself as such."

Arya rolls her eyes even as she crushes herself against her Mother's chest, arms wrapped tight around her middle.

"Thank you." She whispers. "Oh Mother thank you."

"If it is what you are good at," Catelyn says. "Then you shall be the best."

Nothing less, for warriors who were not the best seldom survived battle and war. She stares out again at the city, heart clenching in fear for her son. When would they know? The two youths had not thought of that, so ready they were for action. Who was to be the one to rely a message of their fortune? Who was to be the one to inform her of anything? Here she was wringing her hands with her youngest daughter beside her as her only solace, whilst her eldest children fought for their lives in that labyrinth. 

"Do you think it will last much longer?"

"It cannot." Catelyn does not know if she's reassuring her daughter or herself. "The Lannister's are overwhelmed and outnumbered; they only have so many goldcloaks, while Robb and Daenerys have Northerners, Riverlands men, Dothraki and dragons aside. It is only a matter of time."

She looks down at her scarred fingers, away from the doubt laid before her, and turns back to the camps. Still teeming with people, bustling with life. Radiant as the sun that poured down on them, compared to the city of dead her son fought his way through. Flies buzzed around her so incessently it felt her ears had turned funny, the stench of hot corpses in the early autumn sun making many a man gag as they searched for their family. She witnesses so many reunions before her, and only hopes she will also be reunited with her loved ones in the way she desires.

* * *

"I want your so-called Queen. Nobody less, and nobody more."

A deafening hush descends over the court as the girls words are relayed by the guard, and all eyes turn to Cersei where she sits above them all on the dais. Nobody moves for a long seconds, before one of her guards inches towards her, his greedy hands outstretched.

"No." Cersei snaps, and calmly pushes the high chair back and stands. She has never looked more regal and Queenly, she thinks, as she sedately smoothes her dresses and makes her way to the door of the Queen's ballroom. Her reflection in the mirrors is haughty and proud, defiant till the end, and she holds herself high with diginity as her people look on. The half of them already traitors, judging by the look of poorly concealed glee in their eyes. Sod them, sod them all. They did not know what good they had with the Lannisters on the throne. Did they not know what the Targaryens brought? Only death and blood and destruction, and since her marriage to Robert until the day it ended not one soul of the Seven Kingdoms could say they were not at peace. As she passes she squeezes her second born son's hand tight and Tommon smiles tremuously. 

The doors of the Queen's Ballroom creak closed behind her and the guards dressed in crimson bow to the girl before her. A child in truth, despite dressed in breeches and leathers like a Dothraki savage, splattered in blood and dirt. The scent of smoke is thick around her, the bells in her silver hair jingling as she moves away from them, and Cersei feels scarlet with envy. In another world this girl in front of her could have been her own daughter, with Rhaegar's looks and Cersei's temperament, a true Targaryen.

"Come," She invites, with not one backwards glance at her enemy. 

 Cersei grips Tommen's hand tight and drags him with her. He is a good child, a quiet child, and does not protest. He is her last stand.

"What is this?" She demands, but the girl makes no answer only continues on her way, the sunlight making her hair shine liquid silver. 

* * *

He is buried beneath dead weight, and he groans as he crawls his way through his unmoving companions. He staggers upwards, lurching to his feet.

"Grey Wind." He rasps, and golden eyes shine as his wolf, his constant companion drifts to his side, nose bumping against his thigh.

He curls his hands into his thick fur, fluffed up with dust, and his right hind leg is bloodied, held slightly aloft. Robb coughs, gazing at the motionless white body of Viserion half slumped over the fallen wall. Robb has no idea where the other two dragons are, and as other soldiers start to shuffle back to their feet he picks his way through the piles of bricks and bodies with less delicacy then Grey Wind, who trots silently beside him nosing allies to wake them. 

Blood trickles down Robb's temple, smearing on his cheek as he wipes it away messily, ears ringing at the memory of the wall falling, and there were more dead then he imagined would be when he set out on this quest to win an Iron throne. He could not give up now, would not when he was so close, and he grits his teeth and carries on walking, pausing over each and every one of his men to check their vitality. 

A ragtag crew they are, minutes later when the survivors band together. Dothraki on foot, their horses crushed but they themselves still standing with those bells in their hair and their grip never loosening on their hooked swords desecrated with guts. Northerners help goldcloaks to their feet, who are wan and bleeding, and Kingsguard have beautiful white cloaks showing white no longer. 

"We'll swear fealty." The goldcloaks gasp, wiping dust from their cheeks, even as the Kingsguard draw swords to fight till the end for a King they didn't truly wish to protect.  

Robb only has to flick his gaze towards the man before Grey Wind pounces on his chest and the Kingsguard member falls to the ground. Robb doesn't know his name, but what does it matter? From Ser Barristan's descriptions he must be Meryn Trant, his honour as black as the Night's watch uniform, sullying the white he wore in splendor.

"Take me to the bastard." Robb says through clenched teeth, and Meryn Trant glares in disgust.

"Never." 

Robb and Grey Wind snarl as one, and Trant's blood is hot and heady on Robb's tongue. He laps at it, a loving growl rising up as he worries at the flesh, tearing the skin to get more of the pulsating flow of life-blood. Muzzle warm with it, sticking to the fur and his teeth are stained crimson. A hand rests lightly on Robb's arm and he snaps at them, upper lip curling up for it was his meat, his prize. 

"Let us find Khaleesi." The Dothraki says in heavily accented Westrosi, and it takes a long moment for Robb to shake off the wolf skin he slips into so easily these days. He blinks, eyelashes fluttering in confusion. 

Daenery's guards stand shoulder-to-shoulder before him. Blood-riders, Robb thinks, and the name is apt for them now with their braids hanging down over their shoulders, dripping blood down the length of their bodies. 

"Yes." Robb nods, trying not to wince at the pain in his sore head. "Yes find Daenerys." 

They take off, talking with words he doesn't understand, and he stalks around to the nearest man who surrendered, a quivering goldcloak who assures them all loudly and constantly that he always hated those lions, loved dragons and wolves much more. 

"Where is the boy born of incest who calls himself King?"  

* * *

"You dare to hurt a child?" Cersei smoothes back Tommen's blonde locks. Her voice echoes in the Throne Room as she stands in the middle of the floor, and Daenerys merely stares up at her in equal parts surprise and distaste. "You dare to let him see his Mother die in front of him?" 

"I'm not like your family." Even a scowl does not mar the girls fine features. "Your child can live. He will be declared a bastard and be fostered at Winterfell before joining the Night’s Watch and forsaking his non-existant claim to the Iron throne."

"And Joffrey? What of your King?" Cersei demands sharply and Daenerys smiles. A wide full-lipped smile, her violet eyes sparkling prettily. 

"Joffrey is no King of mine. I shall have no mercy on little boys who cut off the head of my good-father."

"Stark?" She spits in disgust and the girl laughs at that. A child's laughter, bubbly and innocent and light. How she could stand there and look down her nose at Cersei when she was naught better made Cersei's skin itch, her blood boil. She grips Tommen tighter to her and her son squirms but she dare not let go. Not her final leverage. 

"Did you not hear of his prowess in battle and fear, just for a minute he would come? He has not lost a single fight. King in the North his nobles declared him, and King he shall be. My King, King of the Seven Kingdoms."

Cersei laughs, for the girl was a bigger fool then Cersei thought if she hoped to keep the city she conquers. "You may defeat Kings Landing but my Father raises an army in Casterly Rock as we speak-"

"Your Father’s army is defeated, and your brother is our captive. He shall lay his pathetic remaining arms down very quickly once he learns his nephew and daughter are dead."

"Dead?" Cersei's lips curl. "You do not have the guts. You stand here and speak of power, yet you wield none yourself. You are a feeble minded girl who is merely lucky-"

Daenerys leans forward, curls spilling into her face as shes smiles secretly, lovingly at her son. 

“Your name’s Tommen?” The fair haired boy nods nervously, fingers clenching his Mother’s wrist. “Why don’t you come with me?” Daenerys holds out a slim hand that does not tremble or shake. “You can visit your sister, would you like that?”

He nods shyly. “Mother-”

“Your Mother’s going to see your Father. Say goodbye now. Make sure to tell her you love her.” Daenerys whispers with an encouraging smile.

“Goodbye Mother.” Tommen turns and plants a kiss on his Mother’s marble cheek, hugging her tight for a long moment before slipping off and taking Daenery’s hand.

Cersei stares in disbelief at her son, so meek and mild he would willingly walk away with a traitor, a murderer, a bitch. 

"Tommen." Cersei says, but he doesn't turn back. "Tommen-"

Daenerys is already bending her head down close to his and giggling softly, entrancing him with her soft smiles and tall tales and she is taking her son away even as her other lies dead already for all her knowledge and she had nothing left to save her now except her own skin. 

* * *

Joffrey screams when they break down the door, screams when Grey Wind launches himself at him, screams when Robb yanks him to his knees and orders him thrown in the dungeon. He is a King fallen far from grace, his golden curls bedraggled and his clothes ripped, and he has tears in his eyes when he grovels for them to let him go, he was the King, they were all traitors. A swift fist to the mouth makes him silent, his whimpering the only sound when he is caught and bound. Robb dismisses every man from the room and corners him alone.

He hits him again, and again, his fury when tapped into swirling a red haze in his brain that is hard to control. 

Joffrey cowers from him on the floor, blood trickling from his face that Grey Wind mauls and bites. 

"Stop it!" He shrieks hideously, body writhing but Robb watches on in sick pleasure. "You cunt!" This boy and he was just a _boy,_ younger than him, had his lord father beheaded, his rotted head stuck on a pike, as well as most of the household Robb had grown up with. There are rumours his new comrades confirm about his abuse towards Sansa, how he made her look at Father's head, and he shall not forget that. 

Joffrey keens, a low whine that cuts through Robb's thoughts and makes him remember that to kill him there was a bad thing. Better to kill him in front of witnesses, on the Sept of Baelor for poetic justic, and let everyone know Joffrey Baratheon has most definitely died. A mauled mess of meat would be hard to identify, and Grey Wind stops gnawing on Joffrey's shoulder to slink back to Robb's side.

He calls for his men with heavy breath, the constant bloodlust hard to deal with, and he wishes Dany was by his side so they can revel in their revenge. Soon, he knows, soon this will be over and they can celebrate together, move their bodies in unison, tearing at clothes and biting at skin-

He pushes himself back from the wall he slumps against.  

"I shall execute him on the morrow." Robb tells his men, men who have been with him from the beginning and men who have joined his cause just now. "And swing the sword myself."

The man who passes the sentence must swing the sword, as his Father had told him often. His Father had not been afforded that luxury, but now he would be avenged. 

* * *

Daenerys instructs her ever-faithful blood-riders to head back to the camps announcing victory and has Tommen handed over to Ser Barristan, who had headed the second wave of attack when the wall had collapsed from Viserion, her poor gentle Viserion. Tears will come later, because she will not be the only woman to lose a child today. Ser Grandfather as she lovingly calls him, and confessed to Tommen as he giggled, has sworn to guard Tommen in his chambers for the night before the execution tomorrow, and after Tommen will be escorted to Winterfell as a Lannister bastard to begin his new life. A different life but a gentler one, one that when Daenerys looks at him thinks he will prefer. You can be a First Ranger, Daenerys had told him with a smile, or even be an Maester at the Wall wearing so many chains you might trip! He had giggled at that foolish image, and she wishes she were that innocent again, as innocent as when she lived in the house with the Red Door. 

She stares at the former Queen, whose eyes gleam viciously, hands out before her like claws ready to strike at a moments notice. She wonders if this is how Jaime Lannister felt when he plunged the dagger into her Father’s back. Now justice has come, and the positions are rightfully reversed.

“I don’t harm innocents. I’m not like you. I don’t take pleasure wielding power.” She tells her.

“You could fool me.” Cersei glares at her with loathing. “You truly are your Father’s daughter. Your brother Rhaegar would have never dared-”

“Because he was killed before his time.” Daenerys snaps, voice pure ice. “And you are living well past what you should.”

Daenerys smiles, and raises her head over Cersei's shoulder.

* * *

Cersei's breath withers and dies in her windpipe, and she slowly turns around to see a huge black beast hissing, steam curling from its nostrils. Eyes dark and glassy, teeth glinting- 

" _Dracarys_." She hears a whisper, and then no more except the screech that brings her death.

* * *

"Lady Stark!" 

"Dacey!" Catelyn scrambles up from where she sat with Arya, who was dragging her hand along Rhaegal's burnished dark green scales humming lightly. The dragon had returned to camp a few minutes earlier, after Arya had sat watching the beast and his black brother roam the streets eating corpses. 

The Mormont girl is wounded, blood stemming from her arm where an arrow still lay embedded but she's smiling despite the fever forming in her bright eyes. 

"Khaleesi!" Daenery's blood-riders follow at her heels, lifting their swords to the sky in pleasure as they chant, and the Dothraki in the crowd slam their hands on their drums enthusiastically and cheer. "Khaleesi!"

"We have won!" Dacey grins, laughter spilling from her lips. "King Robb and Daenerys have taken the Keep and ordered Joffrey's execution on the morrow.  _Khaleesi_ has won!" She turns to the nearest Dothraki and beams, almost falling off her horse. 

Catelyn and a Maester rush forward to help her, and Dacey murmurs of dragons falling and arrows flying and men that were like wolves as they lay her in a cot and mop the blood and sweat from her forehead, prepare to pull the arrow from her. 

"What do we do now Mother?" Arya keeps asking, dancing back as every new casualty is brought in. The cries of celebration ring loud in the late afternoon air, and there is already alcohol flowing and dancing for those able (although the drink is also being given to those too weak to stand, Catelyn notes with disapproval). 

"We wait for more word," Catelyn says calmly, hands methodically helping the Septa's and Maester's whenever she is able, comforting each scared and scarred victim. 

* * *

Sansa can almost feel herself going mad with not knowing what lay before her locked and barred door. How many hours has she lain curled in the furthest corner of her room, clutching her knees to her chest with a knife filched from her breakfast clenched tight in her hand? Too many to count, and she has passed time only by the measuring of the sun outside her window, the way the fighting has surged then fallen and leveled out and now quiet.

Too quiet, and she bites down on her lip already raw from worry, her slippered feet tapping nervously on the floor knocking her chin with her knee and she feels so helpless and weak trapped here, but she is _alive,_ which is more to be said for all the people that have died. 

When the doorknob rattles a weak gurgle of a moan falls from Sansa's throat and she clambors to her feet unsteadily, the blood rushing back to her knees making her stagger forward. She holds the knife out in front of her, nails digging into her sweaty palm and she says not a word to betray to the intruder that the room was occupied.

A few seconds of stillness before the doorknob twists again and a hand gently knocks on the wood. 

"Lady Sansa?" A hushed voice, a feminine voice unfamiliar to Sansa. 

Sansa stares at the door warily.  

"Lady Sansa are you in there? My name is Daenerys Targaryen, I'm your good-sister now. I married your brother Robb many weeks ago, and we've taken the castle. You're safe, I give you my word as a... as a Stark. As your sister, I beg you to open the door. I won't let any harm come to you, and your brother most definitely will not." 

Sansa deliberates for a few seconds.

"Give me a moment." She calls. 

"Of course." Comes the gracious reply, and Sansa shifts her dresser ever so slightly to the side, nudging with her hip.  _  
_

She hefts the knife up close to her again and slowly, cautiously opens the door an inch. 

The girl is so beautiful. Older then her, with long silver curls that fall to her waist, scruffy plaits tucked behind her ears finished with tiny silver bells. So beautiful, so other-wordly with her long violet eyes and sweeping eyelashes and Sansa can only gape for a moment, breathtaken.  

The girl smiles as if in understanding, so used she is to having strangers fawn over her and Sansa feels a blush creep up her neck even as she keeps the knife pulled out between them.  

"I heard about your wolf Lady." The girl looks at her sympathetically and Sansa's heart jumps at the mention of her beloved. "My dragon Viserion has died today." Tears cloud those incredible eyes before that smile flickers on her lips again. "But your brother survives, and he is anxious to see you. Walk with me, sister?" 

Sansa nods as if in a daze, and Daenerys loops her arm around Sansa's and gently draws her close as they walk down the corridor. The girl radiates heat, she was fire-made flesh, that's what the Targaryens of old said, and then all of Sansa's history is forgotten because they enter the throne room and there are Lannister soldiers laid out dead all around, and a tall broad boy of about sixteen with bronze curls and a wolf at his side are splattered with blood but there _in front of her_ and _alive_ and she freezes, a small moan of happiness getting stuck in her throat before she is hurrying towards him. 

Robb looks up from the dead at the sound of her feet and his sword clatters to the ground before he grips her back in her tight hug.

"Sansa." He breathes.

She gasps for breath, sobbing into his shoulder.

"You came, you came, I knew you'd come." She whispers, leaning back and gazing up at him astonished, cheeks flushed and eyes wet with tears. "You really came."

Robb grins at her, the boy that helped her how to walk and saved her in games and now has saved her from war and violence and a marriage to a monster and she clings him closer not ever wanting to let go.

* * *

"Sit on it," Robb says with a crooked grin. "It's your throne."

Daenerys looks at him disbelievingly, because how could this be real? How much had she endured in the last few moons, her entire life, for this moment? To climb those steps and sit on the Iron throne, her family's throne, her father's throne,  _her_ throne. She wants Robb to pinch her and see if she feels it, she glides as if she's in a dream.

She stares up at the seat before her. People have called it ugly, but Dany has never seen anything so beautiful aside from her dragons. She can feel the power from it humming in her very bones, and her body knows it belongs there high above her court ruling the Seven Kingdoms, and she takes Robb's offered hand with a deep breath. 

"Go." He urges and she lets out a nervous giggle before beginning her climb. 

When she gets to the top and sits on the steel-backed chair, her hands gently caressing the spiky handles she can almost feel her ancestors applauding her. When she closes her eyes she can almost see them, a sad solemn women with blonde hair is smiling proudly and she must be her Mother, she must, and even Viserys is happy for her, for them, the Targaryens.

When she opens her eyes she sees a sea of red, dead Lannister men laid out in rows, and her husband and his sister stand at the foot of her throne smiling, and beyond them the members of the court slowly spill from the Queen's ballroom to swear their allegiance, and Daenerys feels like she is flying atop Drogon once more, her heart soaring as high as the clouds in the night sky.  

* * *

The cooks bring out a feast for only three - Lady Catelyn and Princess Arya are on their way but the streets are packed with revellers celebrating, Wendel Manderly explains, and bids leave to go join his friends in the whore houses and taverns. 

"Go." Robb says with a smile. "You have well earnt it my Lord." 

"Your Graces." Lord Wendel bows and takes leave, and Robb sighs tiredly. The three of them, he, his wife and sister are clustered at one side of the huge banquet table, and Robb would laugh at the sight if he had the energy. 

"It has been a long day." Sansa states the obvious as she chases pease round her plate. 

Robb laughs, for he cannot remember the last time he slept.

"Yes sister." He closes his eyes to stop his head pounding. "It has."

Daenerys squeezes his hand under the table, and when he opens his eyes she smiles at him so beautifully, and he cannot help but smile back. They stare at each other for a long moment before Robb remembers his sister is with them, but Sansa is paying them no heed and is instead stroking Grey Wind and crooning softly, offering him a slice of bacon from her plate. She chews her food thoughtfully, gazing out of the window at the night sky. Lights flicker in every direction, and Robb knows even in the camps for the wounded the mood will be merry. 

"Does something ail you?" Daenerys asks concerned, hands reaching out to touch Sansa's arm and Sansa flinches.

"No, Your Grace."

"I've said to call me Dany." His wife laughs. 

"Dany." Sansa repeats, cheeks rosy. "I was only wondering about... well, the former King and Queen regnant."

"You need not fear them any longer." Robb is quick to reassure her. "Joffrey is to be beheaded tomorrow."

"And... and the Queen? She did not escape?" 

"Oh no." Daenerys says. "She definitely did not."

"I only ask... Lord Tyrion, what did you do with him?"

"He is in the dungeons with his fate to be decided. Why?" Robb frowns.

"He has been naught but kind to me. He and Sandor Clegane have been the only ones to be kind to me." Sansa says. "It is the Kingsguard that should go on trial, for they beat me and stripped me on Joffrey's command."

"They did what?" Robb hisses and Grey Wind growls, hackles rising. 

"They shall be accordingly punished." Daenerys jumps in with a warning look to Robb. "We're to pick our own Kingsguard anyway. A Queensguard. There is lots to be changed, but we have the time now."

"Good changes." Robb finishes his goblet of wine. "Changes that will benefit everyone."

"That will be lovely." Sansa sighs. "I just hope the people will accept it."

* * *

They are feral in their love making, their adrenaline spilling over to wreck each other’s bodies. Tearing their clothes off each other, and Robb lifts Daenerys up so fast she lets out a breathless laugh before encompassing her mouth with his once more. She wraps her thighs around his hips, nails digging into his back to draw blood, and Daenerys thought she was tired before Robb kissed her goodnight. They were the King and Queen, a symbol of hope and prosperity, they would fix all the wrongs that needed to be fixed, they were loved, they were fierce, and they had survived a battle and taken a _city!_

Daenerys cries out in pleasure and Robb groans in her ear, his stubble scratching her face and they lay gasping and shuddering for breath on the sweaty bedsheets. They bask in each other's company, the way Robb's calloused hands touch her body drives Dany wild, and she can only truly relax when he has mapped every bruise and cut on her body with his lips. 

“We did it.” Robb says amazed, slowly threading his hands through her hair as she lies on his chest, one leg hooked over his.  

She smiles, rolling onto the flesh of her hip to gaze up at him. Never had he looked more beautiful, more  _wild,_ with his hair mussed and breathing laboured, flakes of dried blood he was too tired to wash away still painted on his skin. 

“We did.” She presses her lips over his beating heart. “But the hard bit isn’t over. It’s just beginning.”

He nods, jaw set. “But we’ll handle it.”

“Together.”

He presses his lips against hers. "Together." 

* * *

The reunion with Mother had been _lovely,_ and Sansa had even been happy to see her sister, even if she did scowl when she called her a Princess. Sansa has spent the day talking with various members of the court that has sworn loyalty to Robb and Daenerys and simultaenously decided she is their new best friend, and talking to the Northern soldiers of Robb's deeds in battle, and Dany had asked to be her Lady in Waiting if she so desired. Sansa had told her she would think about it, as she was not sure she wanted to stay in this city, ruled by another even as it now was. It held too many ghosts for Sansa's liking. She wants to go  _home,_ to look up and see Winterfell's weathered walls, feel snowflakes kisses feather light on her cheeks, spend so long out that her fingers start to tingle in the chill and she has to sit by the fire to warm up. She pities Robb, having to be a King to six other kingdoms and spend his life down here in the South dealing with Southern matters. Ironic, how she had wanted that more then anything only a few short months ago.

Sansa sighs, staring out at the city's fading light. She had heard the cheer a while ago as the boy formally recognised as King Joffrey Baratheon had been taken to the hastily erected stand where the block and axe lay in wait. Robb had asked her to go, but Sansa was still uncomfortable around large crowds of people she did not know, and she knew what a beheading looked like with awful precision. She did not need to relieve the experience, did not want to see Joffrey one last time. Arya will tell her later, she knows, she'll sneak in and fling her arms about as she talks about Joff's face and words and actions. 

Sansa was just so _tired_. She lies her head against the stone brick wall, and wonders what is the next agenda on Robb and Daenery's conquering. Sansa swore she overheard Daenerys whispering about the Stepstones, and the slave trades in Essos. Her new sister truly was remarkable. Historians will love her.

"Lady Sansa?" SmallJon Umber's voice filters through to her. "The King is here to see you."

"Let him in."

Her brother walks into her room and she stands up to greet him.

"How was it?" She dares ask.

"Come with me." Is all he says. 

She follows him down a familiar route, but this is a different King, her  _brother,_ and the blond head atop the spike makes her sort of smile. 

"He who passes the sentence swings the sword." He quotes Father grimly, and Sansa squeezes his hand in comfort. "He was craven till the end Sansa. He pissed himself on the stand." 

"He was still just a boy." She says uncertainly, staring at his face forever frozen in fear.

"And you're just a girl." Robb looks at her lovingly. "How do you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Forgive the people who would, who did do you harm?" He sighs. "Perhaps it would be better if I and Dany were like you."

"No." Sansa says loyally. "If you and Dany were like me you would have been crushed in an instant and I would never have been saved."

"I'm sure you would save yourself eventually."

Robb forever has faith in her, it seems.

"Well it makes no matter now, for you are here." Sansa says lightly. "And you did what you did, and we can never go back to before it."

"The future is bright sister." Robb says, as the two of them stare at the stars twinkling in the night sky above them. "And all we can do now is live it." 


End file.
